


let me take care of you or so help me

by hupsoonheng



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, Moirails With Pails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:04:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a very late birthday present for friend, kind of a really basic solkat im sorry</p><p>sollux knows how to take care of himself, but he won't for numerous reasons, including that after a while karkat will always come to make sure he's alive and well and stays that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me take care of you or so help me

You don’t ever invite Karkat over. Not with words, anyway, not directly. 

It makes you feel like the shittiest best friend, of course, when you do this; you work until you can’t fucking see straight, fridge full of spoiling food and stomach empty, and then you work some more. Every minute you spend awake after a certain point leads to ten more fuckups, so much so that sometimes you don’t even _remember_ what lead you to any given mistake because there’s a high chance you may have blacked out even as you continued to work. 

And you tell Karkat about it. You tell him how much you hate your entire output, how worthless you feel, and then you dismiss him when he tells you to fucking take a break already. You know what you’re doing; he knows what you’re doing. You tell him that you haven’t eaten in 20 hours, and that the last thing you ate was a piece of bread because you couldn’t be bothered to actually put together a sandwich, although you don’t tell him how long you went without food before that slice of bread eaten at your desk. That seems like going too far. 

Of course the work does actually need to be done, or you won’t get paid. So there’s that part of you that really _doesn’t_ want Karkat’s help, or anybody’s for that matter, and fucking congratulates you on being such a hard-working martyr. Nobody gets the job done like Sollux Captor. 

You’ve been awake for 83 hours now, and you sway at the computer as you type much slower than you’d like. Sleep would feel so good. The last remnant of rationality in your brain tells you sleep will energize you, make you much more efficient and productive. Not this shitty zombie you currently exist as. Unfortunately, it’s being shouted down by the rest of your brain, riddled with guilt and anxiety at the thought of _stopping production_ to do something so selfish as sleep. 

A hand descends on your shoulder and you fucking yelp, jumping out of your chair, which topples as you scrabble to keep yourself upright against the edge of your desk. What you find is just Karkat, who holds up his keyring with this sarcastic little shake and a face to match. 

“I was calling your name the whole time I was walking over to you,” he says as he puts a bag of groceries down on the table that’s meant for eating, which is currently buried in a mess of cables you meant to sort through a few days ago. “How long have you been awake?” 

“I don’t know, a while,” you lie as you pick up your chair. You’ve been awake since Sunday afternoon, 2:31:16. “You don’t even call ahead before you just let yourself in?” 

Karkat peers at your computer screen, which is more alarming than it should be. “Where the hell is your messenger? I sent you like three messages saying I was coming over to take care of your sorry ass.” He reaches for the mouse and you slap his hand away before you even realize what you’re doing, and he glares at you. “Excuse the fuck outta you!” 

“I can’t lose my work,” you say, which is bullshit because you save your work three times in a row every time you think to save, which is often. It’s a stupid habit you’ve never bothered dropping. “Just... Don’t touch it, alright? Jesus. I need that.” 

“Whatever,” Karkat says with a roll of his eyes. “I brought you some decent food, not that fucking processed shit you eat.” 

“Processed shit only takes a few bites to eat and then I can get back to work,” you huff, sitting back down and turning back toward your monitor. “It keeps me alive, and that’s the most important thing.” 

“Barely,” he snorts in return. “I went to Trader Joe’s and got you—oh. Oh _hell_ no, you leave that machine alone!” The next thing you know you’re being spun around as your mouse clatters out of your hand and across the desk. “Both of you need a break.” 

“I don’t need a break, I need you to get out of my face.” Karkat is short and chubby to your lankiness, and pushing him out to arm’s length means he can’t spin your goddamn chair anymore. 

“That computer needs to be shut down, or at least put to sleep, and you—” Karkat sniffs “—need a shower. And to eat. And sleep. But a shower first.” 

“I wouldn’t need a shower if you weren’t here,” you say, which you think is a pretty fair point. Maybe it sounds gross to put it this way, but you’re definitely used to your own scent at this point, and the itch of your scalp has stopped bothering you. 

“No, you _need_ a shower,” he insists, grabbing the arm you’re pushing him with and pulling you up. “Come on, asshole, we don’t have all night.” 

“I don’t need anything but to do my fucking work,” you say, even as you let him pull you toward the bathroom. “Look, I know you’re just trying to help, but seriously. I’m fine. I was fine. I’m fine right now!” 

“This whole stumbling routine you’ve got going here is not convincing me,” he says as he brings you to a stop in front of the shower. “And you’re swaying. A lot.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt until you get the point, and pull off your shirt yourself, which is something he’s too short to help you with. 

He does end up helping you with everything else, though, the most embarrassing of which is when you can’t get your fingers to function well enough to undo your own fly. Once upon a time he would leave you alone in the bathroom for this part, standing outside with a hot face and yelling _Are you in the shower yet? Get in the shower!_ every so often. You assured him more than once that you didn’t care if he knew what you looked like naked, and now neither does he, though you’re pretty sure he’s riding it out on pure mama duck instinct. 

He leans into the shower stall to turn on the water himself, holding you by the elbow as he keeps his hand under the spray until the temperature meets his approval. He still won’t actually _look_ at your naked body, and you guess it’s out of respect, but you can’t help but feel it’s because you’re kind of gross-looking. Maybe you should trim your pubes more often. 

You don’t come out of the shower of your own volition—he just comes back after you’ve been in there for a good twenty minutes, touches the soap to check you used it, feels your hair to check you washed it. You used to get offended by that, being treated like a child, but especially right now you can’t summon the energy. 

Karkat leads you out, turns off the water, even towels you dry. He’s picked out a clean change of sweat pants and T-shirt, and you ignore his comments about how he’s probably going to have to do your nasty laundry as you pull the shirt over your head. He forgot underwear, but you don’t care. The sweats are kind of new and the insides aren’t scratchy from the dryer yet, so it feels kind of nice against your bare ass. 

“Can I get back to work yet? Or do you have more torture planned?” you ask as he leads you out by the wrist. “I’ll figure out the groceries later, I promise.” 

“No you won’t,” he says, which is definitely true. You should have known better, because he knows _you_ better. It looks like while you were in the shower he heated up a frozen dinner—one that he bought, yours are sodium-loaded Stouffer’s and he already said he went to Trader Joe’s—and has pulled up two chairs to the eating table, cables pushed back to make room. You groan. 

“Please don’t fucking spoon feed me, I’m not two, I can feed my own fucking self,” you say, despite sitting in the designated seat as you watch Karkat mix the macaroni and cheese and load up a spoonful. 

“That may be true, but that doesn’t mean you _will_ ,” he says, holding up the spoonful. “Say ahh or I’m gonna pinch your nose like you _are_ two years old.” 

“You shouldn’t be allowed around children,” you grumble, but you open your mouth anyway and the bottom of the spoon clicks over your teeth. Frozen mac and cheese is never as good as it looks. 

He makes you finish the whole thing, to the point of grabbing you by the jaw and pinching your hand every time you so much as glance back at your computer—which the little shit put to sleep, and you know your work is safe, but it still makes you nervous as hell. You have to finish the whole glass of water he pours you, too, before he’s satisfied. 

“Alright, well, thank you for making sure I’m not dead, Karkat, but I’ve got work to do,” you say as you get to your feet. “I promise I’ll put the groceries away and actually eat. I do. I’m really serious this time.” With every word that comes after _promise_ he looks more and more skeptical, but honestly, he can be skeptical all he wants, it doesn’t change the fact that your work is unfinished and currently kind of shoddy. For all you care he can hang out all night, so long as he lets you do what needs to be done. 

“Yeah, alright, work to do,” he says, which sounds like he actually agrees for once, but your sigh of relief is premature, because he continues, “ _After_ you’ve slept a decent amount. How long have you actually been awake?” 

“Eighty-four hours and change,” you sigh. “I’ve done worse and you know it.” 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re going to bed.” He’s grabbing you by both hands now, yanking you toward your crater of a bedroom, but this time you’re not going to just plod along like a goddamn donkey. You’ve had enough of this shit. 

“Will you fucking leave me alone? I’m an adult! That shit I’m doing isn’t just for fun, it’s for a goddamn paycheck! To keep me alive, which you seem to be so fucking concerned about!” you spit as you yank your hands away, staggering back with the force of letting go. “Not that I care about being alive, honestly, just the rest of you assholes seem so concerned with me staying that way—”

“Oh, I’m _definitely_ not the asshole here, not this time,” Karkat growls, and this time he grabs you by the clothes, by the front of your shirt and the waistband of your sweats, pulling and swearing as you struggle to escape. You feel like a cat being tormented by a toddler, only Karkat is a good six inches shorter than you, and you don’t have a tail to be yanked on. Once he’s got you in the bedroom he pulls back so hard you go flying past him and fall onto the half of the bed not covered in wires, which he uses as an opportunity to close and lock the door. 

“Jesus, Karkat, you fucking lunatic!” you shout as you get to your knees. “The fuck is your _problem?”_

“My problem,” he says as he stomps your way, “is you not taking care of yourself! Is you fucking _bragging_ to me about how little you care whether you live or die so long as your stupid work gets done! Which it won’t, by the way, if you fucking fizzle out because you couldn’t even let yourself take a godforsaken _nap!”_

“I’m—I’m not _bragging_ —!” But he looks at you and you know he’s had you figured out for years. Bragging is how you tell him you need his help. 

“Sit down,” he commands, and when you don’t immediately obey he repeats himself with more emphasis until you do, sitting on the edge of the bed. You can feel the mattress dipping behind you as Karkat crawls on. One foot, two feet stick out by the outsides of your knees as he wraps his arms around your waist and lays his cheek against your back. You don’t know what to do with your hands at first, awkwardly placed on your thighs until he paws at your arms, so you fold them over where he’s holding you. 

“You’ve always got me fucking worried about you,” Karkat whispers into your shirt, squeezing you. “Don’t make me move in with you. You’ll hate me.” 

“Not if you hate me first,” you whisper back, but he’s pulled a smile out of you, at least. “I’m sorry for being such a piece of shit.” 

“I don’t care,” he says; now he’s rocking you from side to side, which is a lot more soothing than you’d care to admit. 

You stay like that for a good ten minutes, maybe, Karkat pressing his lips to your spine through the cotton from time to time. 

“I’m sorry,” you say again, finally. “I’m sorry I can’t just use my words like a goddamn adult and ask you to come take care of me, because I _am_ literally two years old. I ran out of medication, I can’t—”

“I know,” he says. “It’s okay.” 

“At least someone will know what I look like naked before I die,” you say with this ugly little laugh. Okay, maybe this is another example of not using your words like an adult. A _goddamn_ adult. “And at least it’s someone I like.” 

“You could just ask, you know, you don’t have to drop such dumb hints,” Karkat snorts, even as one of his hands starts to descend. “Although I guess I should expect it coming from you. We’ll call it a part of your care and keeping.” 

His fingers are warm as they slip into your sweats and wrap around your flaccid cock, the pad of his thumb running gently along its length as it starts to wake up. Your breath catches; it’s not the first time Karkat has given you a handjob on one of his little forced care missions, but he’s also the only one who ever does this for your lonely ass, and he won’t talk about it outside this room. 

You curl back against him, your cock stiffening in his hand as he pumps it through your foreskin, and his other hand pulls the elastic of your pants down under your balls. The friction is distracting, but not enough that you want him to stop. You think he’s hard, too, against your lower back, and god you feel like such a perverse piece of shit as you imagine him going further, flipping you onto your stomach so he can fuck you into the mattress. The thought makes precum pour from the tip of your dick and there’s Karkat’s lubrication as he works you over, hand twisting up and around the head. You’re a sick fuck. You want to kiss him. 

You come thinking about sucking Karkat’s dick, shooting up onto your clean shirt and overflowing onto his fingers. You want to grab his hand and lick it clean for a split second, and you’re glad you didn’t as he scoots backward to grab tissues from the bottom shelf of your nightstand. You feel even more exhausted, and you definitely feel the afterglow, but most of all you feel awful, like your brain needs to be excised and destroyed so you don’t have any more thoughts like that about your best friend in the whole world. 

“Can I put any of this on the floor?” Karkat asks as you peel off your shirt and take the proffered tissue to clean up. “All these wires, I mean,” he adds as he points to them. 

“Uh, yeah, just do it carefully,” you say as you pull the front of your pants back up. “Thank you for not asking why I have that shit in my bed.” 

“I don’t think I really need to,” he says as he starts to carefully place the mess aside. “Get up here, lie down.” 

“What, are you gonna watch me sleep?” you laugh as you crab-walk in the laziest way possible up to the top of the bed. “I’m pretty sure once I’m asleep I’m not gonna pop up an hour later and get back to work.” 

“You never know,” Karkat says with a shrug. “Also, I am way too fucking tired to go back home now, and your couch is terrifying, so I’m gonna crash here, and there’s literally nothing you can do about that.” 

“Ugh, fine, if I have to tolerate your presence for another six hours, even if I’m passed out.” 

“Eight, preferably nine,” he corrects, wriggling under the covers next to you. “Go to fucking sleep, Sollux.” 

As you drift off you almost put your arm around him; a second later he pulls that same arm around his soft waist, clasping his hand over yours. You know you’re gonna read into that a lot in the morning, but for now you’re more or less content with just spooning as you fall asleep.


End file.
